To Ireland In The Coming Times - Poem by William Butler Yeats

Autoplay next video

Know, that I would accounted beTrue brother of a companyThat sang, to sweeten Ireland's wrong,Ballad and story, rann and song;Nor be I any less of them,Because the red-rose-bordered hemOf her, whose history beganBefore God made the angelic clan,Trails all about the written page.When Time began to rant and rageThe measure of her flying feetMade Ireland's heart hegin to beat;And Time bade all his candles flareTo light a measure here and there;And may the thoughts of Ireland broodUpon a measured guietude.Nor may I less be counted oneWith Davis, Mangan, Ferguson,Because, to him who ponders well,My rhymes more than their rhyming tellOf things discovered in the deep,Where only body's laid asleep.For the elemental creatures goAbout my table to and fro,That hurry from unmeasured mindTo rant and rage in flood and wind,Yet he who treads in measured waysMay surely barter gaze for gaze.Man ever journeys on with themAfter the red-rose-bordered hem.Ah, faerics, dancing under the moon,A Druid land, a Druid tune.!While stiIl I may, I write for youThe love I lived, the dream I knew.From our birthday, until we die,Is but the winking of an eye;And we, our singing and our love,What measurer Time has lit above,And all benighted things that goAbout my table to and fro,Are passing on to where may be,In truth's consuming ecstasy,No place for love and dream at all;For God goes by with white footfall.I cast my heart into my rhymes,That you, in the dim coming times,May know how my heart went with themAfter the red-rose-bordered hem.